


I Can Fix That

by Hazel_Athena



Series: Handyman AU [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Constipation, Humor, M/M, Pining, one of them expresses his feelings through home repair and the other doesn't do so at all, the handyman au that nobody wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9597179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazel_Athena/pseuds/Hazel_Athena
Summary: Not bothering to think about what he looks like, Faraday stumbles downstairs and over to the front door, hauling it open and blinking in the early morning sunlight. He freezes mid-yawn.There may or may not be a male model standing on his front porch. He can’t be sure.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decoy_ocelot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decoy_ocelot/gifts), [MistMarauder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistMarauder/gifts).



> I feel like I'm playing some bizarre game of AU bingo in this fandom, and yet I'm blaming this one entirely on MistMarauder, who demanded I write her a Handyman AU and then bullied me until I did it, all while making sure I hit every handyman trope possible.

Faraday's perched atop a ladder in an already precarious position when his bum leg finally says enough is enough and buckles beneath him. He scrambles wildly for purchase as he feels it give out, and the only thing that saves him from taking a header onto the ground below is when one flailing hand gets a grip on the gutter he'd been trying to clear out.

He stays in that spot for about a minute, his heart pounding in his ears and his breath coming in short, ragged pants, as he waits for the throbbing in his leg to subside enough to let him get down. He'd known from the start that trying to do this himself was a bad idea, but his stubborn pride had seen him climb up here sure enough as he once again tried to refuse the new limitations his body was working under.

"Fucking hell," he grits out. He wishes more than anything that he was down on the ground so he could dig his fingers into the meat of his thigh, the one where scar tissue can be found curled along it in a jagged, painful knot, and massage some of the ache out. Unfortunately for him, his position up on the ladder is making that impossible, and all he can do is stand here with his leg locked in a rictus of pain until it decides it wants to behave. And isn't that just dandy.

He's still standing in the same position, one hand curled around the gutter and the other wrapped around the top of the ladder for added help with his balance, when he hears the telltale sound of a person clearing their throat. His face heating at the mere thought of someone playing witness to the little fiasco his latest attempt at home maintenance has seen fit to turn into, Faraday cranes his neck in the direction the noise had come from, and isn't surprised to lock gazes with the pretty redhead who lives next door. He dredges up a smile from somewhere, the depths of his soul most likely, and says as pleasantly as he can, "Morning, Ma'am, is there something I can do for you?"

The woman crosses her arms over her chest and peers up at him with a worried frown etched into her features. "I'm not sure, but I think maybe I should be asking you that. Not that I want you thinking I don't mind my own business, but are you alright?"

"Just peachy," Faraday lies. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you've been standing in the same spot without moving for the better part of ten minutes, and now that I've got a better look at you I can see signs of what I'll tentatively call pained distress." Her worried frown turns into something more determined, and he gets the sense that this is not a woman to be trifled with. "Do you need help getting down?"

"Of course not," Faraday scoffs, and they both know it's a line of grade A bullshit. "I'm perfectly fine. I just felt like admiring the view on this lovely day."

She stares at him incredulously, her eyebrows making a valiant bid to reach her hairline. "You're admiring the view ... of your rain gutter?"

"Sure, why not," he says as affably as he can. "Let’s go with that."

"Uh huh," the woman says slowly. She scratches absently at her chin with one hand, seemingly deep in thought, and then settles both hands on her hips, putting him in mind of every scolding housewife caricature to grace a tv screen over the past seventy years. "How about we do this instead? Either you get down from there on your own, or I call the fire department to do it for you."

Faraday can't hold back an indignant squawk at her words. "You wouldn't!"

He takes a closer look at her face and sighs. "Ugh, you would. Fine. Hang on." Releasing  his grip on the gutter, he hisses out a pained breath and slowly forces himself to get down, the pain in his leg a small price to pay in comparison to the lifetime of shame he'd incur at having to be rescued from his stupidity by strangers.

Once his feet are firmly planted on the ground again, he spreads his arms wide and gives her his most charming smile. "Okay?"

She snorts. "No. Better, but not okay. What were you doing up there?"

"Looking for gold," he says with a snort of his own. "What do you think I was doing? The damned gutters are clogged, and we've had so much rain lately I'm afraid of what's gonna happen if I don't get them cleared out."

"So hire someone to fix the problem," she tells him. "You're obviously in no shape to do it on your own."

As always happens when someone implies he can't do something, even when said someone happens to be right, Faraday bristles against his will. "Now, wait just a minute, lady. I know I'm -!"

"Emma," she says, effectively cutting him off mid-rant. "My name's Emma Cullen. My husband Matthew and I live next door."

"Joshua Faraday," he spits out, "and I already knew that, thanks. I've seen you both around. Unlike you, however, I don't feel the need to go around throwing my observations in the face of total strangers. Mainly on account of how I know that can come across as a bit annoying."

Emma rolls her eyes, clearly not bothered or intimidated by his words in the slightest. "What kind of neighbour would I be if I let you break your fool neck doing something you shouldn't?"

A good one, as far as Faraday's concerned, but he's polite enough not to say so. Instead he crosses his arms over his chest and glares at a point over her left shoulder, something he used to do to Sam whenever the man was scolding him for breaking some rule or other. "I had it under control."

"That's funny," She says. "I've never seen someone use the words 'under control' to mean 'put myself in a position to faceplant into the ground fifteen feet below me' before. What an interesting definition."

Against his will, Faraday feels his mouth trying to curl into a grin. He hasn't had much in the line of company since he'd moved halfway across the country to take up a job his body would still let him handle, and Emma Cullen is proving herself to be exactly the kind of person he tends to get along with. "You are not a very nice person," he tells her, not at all meaning it as an insult.

"No, I'm not," she says, just as obviously not taking it as one. "But I do know how to solve your gutter problem. Vasquez could have that fixed in no time."

Faraday blinks, thrown by the abrupt topic change. "What's a Vasquez?"

"Vasquez isn't a what, he's a who. One of those local handyman, jack of all trades types. He's a nice guy, if a bit rough around the edges." Emma glances over at where the ladder is still leaning up against the front of the house, looking sort of sad and forlorn now that it's no longer in use. "Knowing him, he could probably have this mess dealt with by the end of the day. You want his number?"

It's on the tip of Faraday's tongue to say no, his pride forever warring with his common sense, but he still has pain shooting up and down his bad leg and in the end that makes common sense win out. "Why the fuck not," he says grudgingly, "but if this guy costs me a fortune there's going to be trouble."

"His rates are perfectly reasonable," Emma assures him. Turning on one heel, she adds over her shoulder, "Wait here. I'll go get the number for you."

Faraday watches her go until she's opening the door and stepping inside her own house, then he takes the necessary steps over to his front stoop and gingerly lowers himself down onto the sun warmed wood. Stretching his leg out in front of him, he kneads the spot where he knows the worst of the scar tissue to be, wincing as the initial touches make the whole mess feel worse.

He's just starting to work some of the ache away when Emma re-materializes in front of him with a piece of paper held in one extended hand. "Thanks," Faraday tells her, taking it as graciously as he's able. He notices that there's not one but two numbers scrawled on the paper in thick, black ink, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

"The second one is mine," she says, answering his unasked question with a nonchalant ease. "Feel free to use it if you're ever so inclined, and call Vasquez. I mean it. He does good work."

 "Right, yeah." Faraday gets to his feet, and gives her an aborted wave. "I'll just go do that."

"See that you do," she tells him,

*****

If Faraday were a more mature person than he in fact is, he’d call the number Emma gives him right away. As it happens, however, he drops the info on his kitchen table and spends the better part of the afternoon pretending it doesn’t exist, choosing instead to putter around in his office, writing vicious comments in the margins of the latest manuscript Sam has sent him for editing. It’s not until he goes foraging for supper, long after it’s gotten dark, that he deigns to acknowledge the paper shaped elephant in the room.

“This is ridiculous,” he tells himself sternly. “You are being ridiculous. The gutters need to be cleaned, and, honestly, do you even want to get up there and do that? No, no you do not. So, why not pay some … person to come here and do it for you? That’s a perfectly normal thing that people do all the time.”

Picking the paper up before he can change his mind, Faraday takes his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and thumbs the first number in. It rings for long enough that he’s afraid it’s going to cross over into voicemail territory, something he may want to deal with even less than he does an actual person, when there’s a click and a gravelly voice says, “Vasquez.”

“Oh,” Faraday says, surprised for some reason. “Uh, sorry. Emma Cullen gave me this number, she says you do work around houses?”

There’s a low chuckle on the other end of the line. “Si, you could say that. Did you need something in particular, or were you just calling to confirm what you were told?”

Faraday scowls, not caring that it’s useless since the guy can’t see him. “Obviously I need something done. Why else would I be calling you?”

“I don’t know. You called me, remember?” This time the sound Vasquez makes is less of a chuckle and more of a full blown snicker.

Seriously considering punching something, Faraday takes a deep breath and counts to ten in his head like Sam always told him to right before he'd hand him a stack of printouts. “The gutters of my house are clogged,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m wondering if you’d be kind enough to do something about it, at whatever your going rate is, of course.”

“Gutters, is it?” Vasquez asks, and some of the teasing goes out of his voice. That’s a good sign, maybe the man actually is a professional. “I can do gutters. What’s the address?”

Faraday gives it to him, and he makes a knowing sound. “So that’s how you know Emma then. I’ve done work on her place before. I know the area. Does tomorrow work for you?”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Faraday says, relieved to know the problem will be dealt with quickly. “Do I need to do anything for you beforehand? Sign some paperwork or something?”

“I’m not running an operation that fancy,” Vasquez says with a laugh. “I’ll poke my head in when I get there so you know what I’m doing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right,” Faraday says. He shuts his phone off and stares down at the piece of paper that’s still in his hand. As much as he’d like to toss is on principle, that’s a stupid idea. He sticks it to the fridge next to the collection of takeout menus he’s accumulated since moving here and then goes to get himself a beer or three.

*****

Faraday wakes up the next morning at an ungodly hour and with a dull throbbing in the back of his head as a result of one too many beers before bed. It takes him longer than it should to realize the pounding he can hear isn’t coming from inside his skull, and then he kicks the covers back and struggles into a sitting position. He can still hear the sound of knocking once he’s upright and therefore deems it not to be something he’s imagined.

Not bothering to think about what he looks like, Faraday stumbles downstairs and over to the front door, hauling it open and blinking in the early morning sunlight. He freezes mid-yawn.

There may or may not be a male model standing on his front porch. He can’t be sure.

“Um,” Faraday says eloquently, wishing he’d bothered to come downstairs in something other than ratty pajama bottoms and a washed out Hello Kitty t-shirt he’d been given as a joke. “Can I help you?”

The man on his porch gives him a grin and pushes his sunglasses back on his head. Dark brown eyes glitter as they rake Faraday up and down. “Morning, guero,” he says in a voice Faraday recognizes as the one he’d heard on the phone the night before. “I think you said something about needing your gutters cleaned?”

Faraday has no idea how the man – Vasquez – manages to make that sound like an innuendo, but he does. Sputtering, Faraday scrubs a hand over his face and decides it’s simply too early for him to be awake, let alone dealing with … with whatever is happening right now. He waves one hand in the general direction of where he’d left the ladder the day before. “The ladder’s over there somewhere, and I figure you can find the gutters without my help.”

Vasquez’s grin stretches wider, and he gives Faraday a friendly nod. “I’m sure I can. Why don’t you go back to bed? You look like you need it.”

Faraday considers flipping him off, and settles for closing the door in his face.

*****

Because he can, Faraday does, indeed, go back to bed. When he wakes up again it’s two hours later and his headache has receded considerably. Feeling much more human, he grabs a quick shower, hauls on a pair of jeans and a much less embarrassing t-shirt than the one he’d slept in, and heads to the kitchen in search of coffee. Coffee obtained, he wanders into the living room and idly cracks the curtains open to see how Vasquez is progressing.

It is sheer dumb luck that he doesn’t have a mouthful of coffee when he catches sight of the man in question, otherwise he’d likely have spat it everywhere. Faraday’s about ninety percent certain Vasquez had been wearing a shirt the last time he’d seen him, but he isn’t now and it’s still far too early in the morning for Faraday to be able to handle the amount of glorious, tanned skin that’s now on display.

Backing away from the window, Faraday heads to the kitchen and grabs the piece of paper Emma had given him yesterday. This time when he punches in a phone number, it’s the second one on the list, and he doesn’t bother with a greeting when she picks up.

“Did you send me a stripper by any chance? Or, maybe a pornstar who thinks he’s wandered onto a film set by accident?” Honestly, there’s no other explanation for what’s happening in front of his house right now.

“…Faraday?” Emma asks.

“Obviously,” he shoots back. “Why, have you sent strippers to clean other people’s gutters recently?”

“Have I – oh.” She snickers. “I take it you’ve met Vasquez, then?”

“Met is too weak a word,” Faraday informs her. “I just opened up the curtains and got a shirtless eyeful I was not expecting this early in the day. Why the hell didn’t you warn me?”

“In my defence, I wasn’t aware you’d need to be warned.” She snickers again. “Though he is _awfully_ easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”

“He’s a walking wet dream, and I feel guilty just saying that out loud, my god.”

“Oh, Faraday, you and I are going to get along great,” Emma tells him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sudden urge to go pick up my morning paper. I might be out there for a while, though, sometimes the damn paperboy hides it in the strangest places.”

“Voyeurism isn’t something to be proud of, Emma,” Faraday tells her as she hangs up the phone, her laughter ringing in his ears.

*****

A little while later, Faraday’s ensconced in his office when he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. “Anybody awake in here?” Vasquez calls, and Faraday sends a mental prayer to any gods who might be listening that the man is fully dressed again as he leverages himself up out of his chair.

He stumbles a bit at first, his leg irritated with him after too long in one position, but it’s fine once he starts moving for real. Stepping out into the hallway, he sees Vasquez standing in the front entrance way, his shirt once again back where it’s supposed to be. Faraday breathes a sigh of relief and sternly tells himself he’s not disappointed.

“You done?” He asks.

“Si.” Vasquez nods. “All done.”

“Awesome,” Faraday replies, and then he frowns as something belatedly occurs to him. “Shit. My chequebook is upstairs. Give me a minute, would you?”

Vasquez shrugs. “I’m in no rush.”

Which is probably a good thing, Faraday realizes as he starts making his way up the stairs. Along with a number of other parts of the house, the banister isn’t in the greatest condition, and the current mood Faraday’s leg is in means he needs to brace one hand on the wall to help himself along because he can’t trust the railing to support his weight. Thinking not for the first time that he should look into getting the thing fixed, or at least tightened somehow, he heads for his room and the shelf he knows his chequebook is on.

When he makes his way back over to the stairwell, he finds that Vasquez has moved and is frowning down at the banister, wiggling it back and forth with one hand. “This is loose,” he says when he notices Faraday’s return.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Faraday grumbles as he begins the slow process of getting back down the steps. “It’s been like that since I bought the place. Now, how much do I owe you?”

Vasquez names a figure that Faraday thankfully has no problem with, but doesn’t move away from the stairwell. “It needs to be replaced, or at least seriously reinforced,” he says, and it takes Faraday a second to realize he’s still going on about the banister.

Faraday snorts. “I’d love to, but that shit costs money, my friend. For some reason, you home repair types always want to be paid.”

Vasquez flashes him a grin, but it’s not as effusive as the ones he’d shown earlier. “Everyone always wants to be paid, guero, but this isn’t structurally sound. It’s unsafe. I can fix it for you no problem though.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Faraday says. “I’ve managed just fine this long.”

“And when you stop doing that?” Vasquez asks. “If you put too much weight on this at the wrong time it’s going to rip right out of the wall and probably take you with it. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“Oh, well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?” Faraday asks sarcastically.

“You can’t,” Vasquez replies, obviously sensing the win. “I’ve got another job lined up across town today, but I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to deal with it.” He gives the banister one last frown and wrinkles his nose. “Maybe try not to touch it until then, yes? I’m not convinced it won’t come down if you breathe on it wrong.”

Faraday rolls his eyes. “I think I can manage until you get back.”

Vasquez gives him a look that suggests he feels exactly the opposite, but doesn’t respond. He tucks the cheque Faraday had just written him into to the pocket of his jeans and heads for the door with a quick nod goodbye.

*****

Wanting to avoid a repeat of the previous morning, Faraday makes a point to set his alarm for earlier than usual the next day. That way, he’s both up and semi-caffeinated when the knocking on his front door starts up for the second day in a row. Sighing at the very concept of morning people, Faraday wanders over to the front entrance with his coffee mug still in hand.

“Is there a reason you need to do this quite so early?” He asks, pulling the door open and stepping back to let Vasquez inside. “Not everyone likes being up at the crack of dawn, my friend.”

Vasquez snorts as he hauls a sturdy looking toolbox along behind him. “It’s nine in the morning, guero, hardly the crack of dawn as you call it. The sun’s been up for hours.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m sure you’ve been as well.” When Vasquez laughs and gives him a nod in response, Faraday sighs. “Fucking morning people, I swear to god. There should be a rule against it.”

“Against morning people?” Vasquez asks.

Faraday huffs out another sigh and waves his coffee in the man’s face. “Don’t mock me right now. This is only my first cup of the day, and I can only process so many things in one go.”

“I … see.” Vasquez says, somehow managing to convey with only two words that he's both confused _and_ concerned for Faraday’s mental wellbeing. “I’ll just get to work, yes?”

“You know where the stairs are,” Faraday agrees, waving his free hand in the general direction in question. He takes another sip of coffee as he watches Vasquez sidle past him, and decides if he’s up, he may as well get some work done. Sam had sent him a bunch of stuff in need of editing during the night, meaning there’s no reason for him to hang around in the living room all morning.

“I’ll be in my office if you need me for anything,” he calls, turning to shuffle back down the hallway. He thinks he hears Vasquez make an affirmative noise as he goes, but it’s possible he’s too busy inhaling more caffeine to be sure.

*****

Faraday has a stack of papers resting in his lap and is idly tapping a pen against his teeth when he’s startled by the sound of a throat clearing behind him. Jumping in his seat, he swears as his bundle of papers slides towards the floor. He makes to grab for them, but only manages to save maybe a quarter of the bunch as the rest hits the floor in a messy pile.

“Shit,” he mutters, glaring down at his feet. He leans forward to start gathering them up, but stops when he feels a slight pressure on his shoulder.

“Let me,” Vasquez says, dropping down easily into a crouch in front of Faraday. “My fault for startling you, after all.”

“Um,” says Faraday. His tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth as he takes in the sight of Vasquez on his knees in front of him. Shaking his head, he pushes as many inappropriate thoughts  - and lord but there are _a lot_ of them right now – back where they’d come from. “Are you, uh, you done already?”

Vasquez makes a humming sound of agreement and nods his head. “The wood was in good condition, so I decided to reinforce it instead of replacing it outright. Though if it starts to pull out again, let me know, and I’ll redo the whole thing. What is this?” He asks, apparently intrigued by the papers he’s futilely trying to shuffle back into their original order.

“I wish I could tell you,” Faraday sighs. “It was sent to me for editing last night, but the author’s so over the place I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“That what you do for a living?” Vasquez asks. “Editing?”

Faraday nods. “It is now,” he says, tapping his knuckles lightly over the scar on his bad leg. “Had a bit of an accident about a year ago that makes it … difficult, let’s say, to be more active in the field these days.”

Vasquez frowns, chewing on his bottom lip in obvious thought. “I saw you limping yesterday,” he says, the words more tentative than Faraday has come to expect from him.

Faraday shrugs and does his best to look like he’s not bothered by this. “Happens every now and then,” he says, “usually if I sit still in one place for too long, or overexert myself somehow.”

“I see.” Vasquez frowns again, but doesn’t add anything further as he hands Faraday the stack of papers he’s still holding on to.

“Thanks,” Faraday says, grateful he didn’t have to get down on the floor after them himself. “And thanks for the work on the stairs, how much do I owe you this time?”

“Hmm? Oh,” like he had the day before, Vasquez names a price that Faraday feels is more than fair, only this time he seems distracted, looking around the floor of Faraday’s office as if he’s just seeing it for the first time. “Why are their extension cords all over the place? I noticed them yesterday but forgot to ask.”

“Oh that,” Faraday says. He waves a hand airily. “The house is, maybe, not in the best of shape. I was in a, how can I put this delicately? Let’s go with ‘something of a financial bind’, and I bought it as is where is.”

Vasquez makes a face at this. “And the reason for the extension cords?” He presses, still, notably, kneeing down on the floor in front of Faraday.

Trying to concentrate on the conversation rather than the man in front of him, Faraday gestures at the room as a whole. “This was the only room that was going to work as an office, but it started off life as a storage room. There’s no outlets in here, so I use the extension cords to power the computer and all the stuff that goes with it.”

Vasquez lets out a displeased sound and runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up ridiculously on one side. “Guero, this entire house makes my head hurt. How long can you go without using this room?”

Confused, Faraday answers the question without thinking about it. “Uh, I don’t know, a couple days, at least without difficulty. I can work from the laptop and out on the couch if I need to.”

“Good, Vasquez says, nodding decisively. “I should only need a day, maybe a little more if I run into something unexpected.”

“Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

Finally getting to his feet, Vasquez stands and flaps a hand at Faraday’s office set up, then he uses the same hand to point at the cables on the floor. “Outlets,” he says, like it should be obvious. “You need some. I can make it happen.”

“No,” Faraday tells him, shaking his head firmly. “Thanks, I mean it, but I can only afford so much of your help, amigo. My pockets don’t exactly run deep these days.”

“No charge,” Vasquez insists.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Faraday says, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Vasquez an offended glare. “I ain’t a charity case, thank you very much.”

“Fine, fine, some charge,” Vasquez decides, “but less of one than usual because you’ll be doing me the favor of not keeping me up at night with nightmares of you tripping over wires and killing yourself. Sounds fair, yes?”

Faraday stares up at him, now wishing he’d had the foresight to stand up when Vasquez had. “How do you expect to make a living if you cut people deals like that all the time?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Vasquez shrugs easily. “I have plenty of work, guero. People call me all the time because they know how good I am at what I do. In fact, that reminds me, it’ll be a couple of days before I can get over here again. I’ve got a job lined up for someone else that’s going to eat up the next two days easy.”

Faraday makes a face at him. “Seeing as I didn’t ask you to do this in the first place, I don’t think it much matters when you can make it back. Don’t stress yourself.”

“I never stress myself, guero,” Vasquez says brightly. “My Mama always warned me I’d get frown lines if I did.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Faraday grumbles. “Now, wait here, will you? I need to cut you a cheque for the work you did today before you go anywhere and I stupidly put the book back upstairs after yesterday.”

Vasquez clicks his tongue. “Should’ve been thinking ahead.”

Faraday rolls his eyes as he gets up and heads out of the room. He can’t help but give the newly repaired banister a bit of a tug as he starts up the stairs, and makes a pleased noise when it doesn’t give under his hand for once.

*****

Vasquez is well on his way to working up a hell of a sweat from moving the office furniture around when Faraday makes an executive decision and flees to the relative safety of his back yard. The last thing he needs to associate with his office, is his semi-permanent fixture of a handyman, sweaty and rolling around on the floor as he determines the best place to put the incoming outlets, and it’s a nice enough day out that he can set his laptop up on the deck and sit back with a couple of beers as he works.

He’s just settled back in his favorite lounge chair when Emma Cullen pops her head over the fence that separates their two yards, putting him mind of some type of curious rodent as she cocks her head at him and then motions for him to come closer with one hand. Intrigued in spite of himself, he sets his work aside and gets up to see what she wants.

“You’ve got Vasquez in your house again,” she says as soon as he’s within earshot, and then gives him a salacious wink for added measure. “His truck’s been in your driveway an awful lot lately.”

“How can you make that sound like an innuendo?” He asks, genuinely curious. “Never mind,” he says when she looks like she might answer, “I don’t actually want to know. Also, I can’t be sure, but I think your handyman might have some kind of compulsive fixing things disorder. He won’t go away.”

“Oh please,” Emma scoffs. “Like you care. You’re the one who pointed out he looks like walking porn. Though,” she adds thoughtfully, “you’re definitely not wrong.”

Faraday glares at her. “Lady, I have seen your husband, you know a thing or two about walking porn already, and should save some for the rest of us.”

She gives him a smug look, but then the expression fades. “All joking aside, if your house needs that much done to it, you may as well just let him work. I’m not convinced there’s anything he can’t fix. Which is good because, pretty though my husband may be, he’s not the person I call when things happen like the shower head coming off in my hands.”

“Duly noted,” Faraday says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was working before you came and rudely interrupted me. Good day, Mrs. Cullen.”

“It’d probably be better if you went inside and watched,” she snickers as she ducks down behind her fence again. Faraday flips her off even though he knows she can’t see him.

Shaking his head, Faraday once again reclaims his spot on the deck and starts tapping away at his laptop, stopping only occasionally to take a sip from the beer he’s left within reach of his hand for whenever he wants it. As it happens, he winds up so engrossed in his work, that he doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting here until the back door slides open and Vasquez steps out onto the deck.

“You’re not done already, are you?” From what Vasquez had told him the other day, this latest project of his should take him until at least the evening, and the sun most assuredly hasn’t started to set yet.

“No,” Vasquez shakes his head for added emphasis, “but it’s well past noon and I figured you might want lunch.”

Faraday is relatively certain that guys working on his house aren’t supposed to try and feed him on top of everything else, and he says so.

Vasquez grins wryly at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am mainly trying to feed me, guero. I just thought that if I was ready to grab something, you probably would be too.”

“Ah,” Faraday says, and now that he thinks about it, he is feeling a little hungry. “I could eat,” he decides.

“And so you should,” Vasquez replies. He motions for Faraday to follow him. “Come on.”

Closing his laptop, Faraday sets the machine aside and gets to his feet. For once his leg doesn’t protest the motion, and he adds that to the list of things that are making today a good day as he goes back inside.

It’s cooler in the house than it is outside, but not by much, since the temperatures have been truly scorching over the past few weeks. The first thing Faraday does is make his way over to the fridge and haul another, much cooler beer out of it. “You want one?” He asks, turning to where Vasquez has just sat down at the table, having hauled a packed sandwich out from somewhere.

Vasquez wrinkles his nose, looking indecisive for possibly the first time since Faraday has known him, before nodding. “Just the one, though. I am here to work.”

Faraday snorts as he sets the bottle down in front of him. “Given that you’ve gone above and beyond what I asked you for, I reckon I can spare you one beer. Drink.”

Flashing him a smile, Vasquez does so, and Faraday studiously does not watch the way the long line of his throat moves as he swallows.

Telling himself to behave, he heads back to the fridge and pulls out some sandwich meat of his own, deciding that Vasquez has the right idea of it. Something quick and that he doesn’t have to cook or otherwise heat is definitely the way to go today.

Once he’s fashioned himself a meal he determined to be worth eating, he moves back over to the table, and sits down across from Vasquez. “So,” he says around a mouthful of food. “How does one go about becoming the town handyman?”

Vasquez laughs, his eyes dancing as he looks back at Faraday. “One learns certain skills from one’s father and puts them to good use.”

“Ah.” Faraday says. “Well, I for one am grateful for your skills, even if I only called you for one thing and now can’t seem to get you to go away.”

“You don’t like my company, guero?” Vasquez asks, his eyes going big and guileless. “I am hurt.”

Faraday snorts. Someone should tell Vasquez not to try to con a con man. Prior to the car accident that had left him with a leg that was more scar tissue than flesh, Faraday had spent ten years as a beat reporter who’d interviewed more liars and cheats than should be humanly possible. Against that, Vasquez’s wide-eyed innocence doesn’t stand a chance.

“Eat your damn lunch, you fucking menace,” he growls, taking a swig from his beer to try and distract himself.

Vasquez snickers at him, but does as he’s told.

Once he’s had his fill, Faraday nods at Vasquez and gets up from the table. He drops his dishes in the sink, and then grabs another beer from the fridge before he leaves. “I’ll be outside if you need anything,” he says, pausing briefly when Vasquez nods affably at him. “Otherwise, I guess just keep on doing what you’re doing?”

Vasquez’s laughter trails after him as he goes back outside.

Faraday spends most of the afternoon plugging away at his work, only stopping when an insistent tug from his bladder reminds him of both how long he’s been outside and also the number of beers he’s knocked back over the course of the day. Chuckling to himself, he gets up and heads to the bathroom with a single goal in mind.

A thought occurs to him as he’s drying his hands in front of the bathroom sink, and instead of going right back outside when he’s done, he makes a slight detour in the direction of his office. “How’s it going?” He asks before he’s even cleared the doorway.

Vasquez makes a startled noise, and they both freeze.

“Um,” says Faraday, and it doesn’t, quite, come out as a squeak, or so he hopes.

It seems that in the time since lunch and now, Vasquez has determined it’s simply too hot in the confines of the office for him to be constrained by a shirt. Faraday can see the item of clothing in question where it’s been folded down and crammed into Vasquez’s back pocket. Vasquez, that is, who’s on his hands and knees on the floor with his legs slightly spread to help him better maintain his balance as he crouches and shines a small flashlight behind Faraday’s desk.

“Faraday,” Vasquez says, and then he somehow makes the whole mess even worse by licking his lips. “I, uh, I didn’t hear you come in, guero.”

“Yeah, uh, I had to go upstairs for a second,” Faraday tells him, jerking his thumb in the direction in question as if to better illustrate his point. “I figured I’d see how you were making out while I was down here, but I can see you’re fine so I’m just gonna … go back to what I was doing. I’ll let you handle, whatever you need to handle.”

And with that, Faraday flees his own home for the second time that day.

*****

Thanks to their previous encounters during the day, Faraday determines he’s not going back inside until Vasquez comes to find him. That’s the only way he’s going to know if it’s safe to go in or not. Admittedly, this does mean he winds up out in the backyard for longer than anticipated, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

It’s early evening when Vasquez pokes his head out the back door again, and Faraday will freely admit he’d given up on working at least an hour ago. Truth be told, he’s been lying back in something of a light doze for a while now.

“You awake there, guero?” Vasquez asks, laughing when he sees him.

“Eh,” Faraday waves a hand as if to say he’s not sure yet. “That might depend on who you ask.” Then realization sets in. “Shit, you done in there now?”

“Si,” Vasquez informs him. “Want to come look?”

“Yeah, of course,” Faraday scrambles up out of his seat, stumbling only a little when he doesn’t distribute his weight quite the way he should and his leg protests. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Vasquez make an aborted move towards him, but he waves him off with one hand. “I’m good,” he insists, and he’s pleased to have Vasquez take him at his word.

“I had to change some of your layout thanks to the way the house is wired,” Vasquez says as he leads Faraday in the direction of the office. “It’s not a big difference, but I know how some people react to having their personal spaces disturbed, so I hope it won’t be a problem.”

Vasquez waves one hand around the office, and Faraday leans in through to the doorway to see what he means. “Oh,” he says as he notes how his desk is now located under the window instead of across from it like it was before. “Fuck, no, that’s perfect. That was where I wanted to put it when I moved in, but I couldn’t because the damn extension cords would only go so far.”

He turns and clasps Vasquez on the shoulder, hoping he’s not being too forward for all that he’s technically Vasquez’s employer right now. “This is great, thanks.”

Vasquez gives him a pleased smile, and then fishes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “I am glad to hear it. Now, while we’re here, this is for you.”

Faraday takes the scrap of paper as it’s offered to him, and peers down at it in confusion. “Vas, buddy, what exactly am I looking at here?”

“You are looking at a list of every single thing that is wrong with this awful, awful house.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Vasquez straightens up to his full height, which is noticeably a couple inches more than Faraday's own, and stares him down. “Please let me fix it before it falls down on you.”

Faraday stares at the list. If he had to come up with a way to describe it, the word lengthy would feature heavily. “Vasquez,” he says slowly.

“Faraday. Joshua.” Vasquez counters, and Faraday frowns.

“No fair using my first name when I don’t know yours.” He grumbles, distracted in spite of himself.

Vasquez gives him a triumphant grin, like he thinks Faraday’s protest is somehow a sign he’s going to give in. “It’s Alejandro,” he says, the name rolling off his tongue in way Faraday finds extremely pleasant. “Now, are you going to let me fix your stupid, broken house or not?”

“What are the odds I’m going to get away with saying no?” Faraday asks.

“Microscopic.” Vasquez replies.

Faraday sighs. “That’s about what I figured. Alright, fuck, fine, but you have to let me pay you for it.” He adds, jabbing at Vasquez’s chest with the list in his hand. “You keep trying to do shit for free, and I’m not okay with that.”

“You can pay for some of it,” Vasquez compromises. “But not all.”

Given that he’s half afraid the man will break into his house and do what he wants anyway if he disagrees, Faraday says yes.

*****

Over the course of the next few weeks, Faraday gets used to waking up, stumbling downstairs, and finding Vasquez already several hours into whatever pet project he’s got on the go this time. It’s not every day, far from it in fact, since Vasquez would be unable to make a living on the amount of money he’s willing to accept from Faraday, but at least once or twice a week he’s over doing god knows what to who knows what. It’s gotten to the point that Faraday had simply thrown his spare key at the man’s head one day because he’d been tired of getting woken up at random intervals when Vasquez happened to have a free morning.

“Mornin’ Vas,” he mumbles one day when he comes into the dining room and sees that the man in question has shoved the large, wooden table to the wall and is now perched on a ladder and industriously screwing lightbulb after lightbulb into the tacky chandelier that dominates the room.

Vasquez grunts in reply, even that much coming out muffled thanks to the bulb he has clamped between his teeth.

Another time he goes to take a shower and finds Vasquez already in there, doing something to the tub and muttering darkly about blocked drains and flooding. Faraday’d never noticed a problem, but all he earns himself is a glare when he says as much.

Then it’s the stonework directly in front of the fireplace, which is apparently not extensive enough and therefore not up to code.

“But I never use the fire place.”

“It is not up. To. _Code_.”

“Whatever. Knock yourself out, big guy.”

After that half the kitchen cupboards get torn apart and put back together because apparently the hinges are faulty and “The doors will fall right on your _head_ , guero. I am positive you have enough brain damage already.”

Faraday tries to put his foot down the morning he wanders outside to grab his mail and learns that Vasquez is up on his roof replacing a bunch of shingles, but all this does is lead to long distance shouting match that Emma and Matthew come outside to referee.

(“The roof is not going to collapse on me in the middle of the night!”

“Yes, it _is_ , your bedroom is right beneath the weakest point!”

“Oh my god, you two are better than live theater.”)

Occasionally, new problems will develop that weren’t originally on Vasquez’s ‘Fuck Everything About This Disaster of a House List of Fixing Things’, but he always goes after these too, getting almost offended when Faraday offers to deal with them on his own.

“I’m pretty sure I can unclog the garbage disposal on my own, Vas. I’ve done it before.”

“No. You will forget to turn it off, lose half your fingers and wind up living on the street because you can’t edit things anymore. Let me do it.”

“Jesus wept.”

Finally Vasquez delves into what he insists on referring to as ‘preventative measures’, but that Faraday classifies as ‘shit Faraday’s put off for forever that’s going to come back and bite him in the ass sometime within the next six months’.

“Your garage door opener hasn’t worked since you moved in, and your solution to this problem is to just park your car in the driveway?”

“Yeah, and?”

“How long have you lived in this house?”

“Um, I moved in, maybe four months before we met?”

“ _Faraday_.”

Faraday can’t be certain, but he thinks Vasquez goes home and cries about how much of a lost cause he is a good six nights out of seven.

*****

Faraday’s gone three whole days without seeing Vasquez when he wanders into the basement to do laundry late one night and finds a growing puddle of water on the concrete floor. “Huh,” he says, positive it wasn’t there the last time he’d been down here. “That can’t be good.”

The puddle is spreading out from around the washing machine, so Faraday figures it’s logical to assume this is the source of the problem. He does his best to peer behind it, but can’t see anything useful. Against his better judgment he puts some effort into dragging the thing out so he can get a decent look, but has to stop when his leg screams as him in protest.

“Fuck,” he wheezes painfully. It wasn’t often that he overdid it these days, but when he did, it hurt like a son of a bitch every time and damned near left him light headed. “Okay, not doing that again.”

He stares at the splash of water on his floor. It’s gotten noticeably worse just since he’s been down here, and as much as he doesn’t like the idea of bugging Vasquez at this hour, he’s probably the best person to call. Biting back a sigh, he heads for the stairs to go find his phone.

Vasquez takes a while to pick up, and when he does, the reason why becomes abundantly clear.

“Shit,” Faraday says after Vasquez has mumbled out a hello that makes it painfully obvious he’s just woken up. “I didn’t realize you’d be asleep already, sorry.”

“S’fine,” Vasquez says around another yawn. “You – hmm – need something, guero?”

Faraday thinks about the mess going on in his basement. It’s not like there’s much down there he’d be worried about losing, and, really, how much damage could a water leak do if it had to wait until morning?

“Water leak?” Vasquez asks, sounding awake for the first time since he’d picked up the phone, and this is when Faraday realizes he’s been talking out loud the whole time.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says before Vasquez can work himself into even more of a lather. “There’s just a bit of water in the basement, looks like it’s coming from the washing machine. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He hears Vasquez let out an overwrought groan. “Joshua, it will not be _fine_. The reason being you will go down there and try and fix it on your own and somehow manage to strain yourself, electrocute yourself, and drown all at the same time.”

“You know,” Faraday says, not for the first time, “I am not comfortable with the level of stupid you seem to think I subscribe to.”

“Tell me I am wrong,” Vasquez says. There’s a moment of silence. “That’s what I thought. Stay out of the basement until I get there. It sounds like you just need to replace a gasket, but I don’t trust you not to make it worse unsupervised. Oh, wait, no. You should shut off the main valve to cut off water to the house."

 

"Er, okay," Faraday says slowly. "Can you describe what that looks like by any chance?"

 

Vasquez swears. "Never mind. I'm coming. Do not touch  _anything_."

 

“I’m really feeling the love here, Vas,” Faraday grumbles into the phone, but it’s to no avail. Vasquez has already hung up on him.

*****

When Vasquez shows up about half an hour later he looks, Faraday doesn’t know how to describe it, softer than usual somehow, having ditched his preferred uniform of jeans and stained t-shirts for a pair of worn in sweatpants and a hoodie. He looks, quite frankly, like a man who’d rolled out of bed and driven across town to come help a friend.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Faraday says as he lets him in.

Vasquez yawns as he shuffles past him. “It’s fine. If I’m right and it is a gasket problem it won’t take any time at all to fix.”

“Yeah, but -.” Faraday starts to say, only to have Vasquez cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“No buts. Just show me where the problem is.”

Sighing, Faraday nods and leads him into the basement. There’s more water than before, steadily spreading across the floor until it’s almost reached the opposite side of the room. “Man, that stinks,” Faraday says, frowning in distaste.

“Makes me glad I didn’t take my boots off,” Vasquez agrees. He moves down from the final step, and lands on the floor with both feet in the puddle. “You stay here.”

“No,” Faraday says, and follows him just to be contrary.

Vasquez, who’s already over by the washing machine and in the process of hauling it out like Faraday had tried to do earlier, rolls his eyes.

“Careful,” Faraday says watching him. “That thing’s heavy.” Absently, he rubs at the scar on his leg, which is still paining him almost an hour later.

If Vasquez notices anything amiss, he doesn’t comment, choosing instead to let out a triumphant noise when he gets the washer where he wants it. He ducks around the machine, and Faraday sees him nod his head from his own vantage point. “I was right, the gasket’s come off. This won’t be hard to fix.”

“Wonderful,” Faraday says through gritted teeth. He’s starting to regret coming down here since his leg is officially in a Mood with him and protesting his standing on it. “Do you need anything?”

“Just my toolbox.” Vasquez replies, raising the object in question.

“Alright, well, I’ll be upstairs if you change your mind. Come find me when you’re done.” Turning on his heel, Faraday starts climbing laboriously up the stairs, resolving not to do anything strenuous for the next couple of days in order to give himself some time to relax.

*****

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, and trying to make his leg hate him a little less by massaging it when Vasquez materializes in the doorway. “All fixed?” He asks, nodding at him.

“All fixed,” Vasquez agrees. He holds up a rubber ring that’s hardened and cracked in one spot. “Here’s your guilty culprit.”

“Lovely,” Faraday says. “Do me a favor and toss it in the trash, would you? I don’t see any reason in keeping it.”

Chuckling, Vasquez moves to do as requested, opening up the cupboard under the sink and throwing the broken gasket in the bag Faraday keeps under there. “Is there anything else you need before I head home?”

“You mean aside from new damn leg?” Faraday asks his voice tight.

Vasquez frowns, seemingly only noticing the hunched over position Faraday’s sitting in now. “What’s wrong?” He asks, concerned.

Faraday shrugs, and wishes he hadn’t said anything. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You do not look fine,” Vasquez counters. “You look like you are in pain.”

“Well, that would be because I am,” Faraday snaps, feeling instantly remorseful when Vasquez flinches imperceptibly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s okay,” Vasquez tells him. “Your leg is bothering you though, yes?”

“Yeah,” Faraday agrees. “I overdid it trying to move the washer before I called you, and now it’s making me pay.”

“Can I?” Vasquez asks. At first Faraday has no idea what he means, but then he holds up his hands and takes a few steps closer and it becomes obvious.

“Uh,” says Faraday, stalling for time. “No offence, Vas, but there are some things even you can’t fix.”

Vasquez shrugs. “Maybe, but I can still try. I promise I’ll stop if I start making it worse.”

Faraday weighs the odds of his having a completely inappropriate reaction to having Vasquez on his knees in front of him again with the chance of some of the ache in his leg going away. In the end it’s not much of a question, and he nods his acceptance of Vasquez’s offer.

“Bueno,” Vasquez says brightly, and drops to the floor with an ease that Faraday’s not sure he could have replicated even before the accident. “Where does it hurt?”

“Basically the entire thigh,” Faraday admits, “but the worst of it is right where the scar is. Here.” He takes Vasquez’s hand and places it over the area in question. “You can probably feel it through my pants.”

“Hmm,” Vasquez mutters, digging in tentatively with his fingers. “This would probably be easier if you weren’t wearing those. I mean … uh,” The faintest of blushes tints his cheeks, and Faraday can’t help but laugh.

“Well, I ain’t taking them off, so you’re just going to have to deal.”

“Si,” Vasquez mumbles. “Of course.”

This time when he digs his fingers into Faraday’s thigh, he’s more determined, his touch less inclined to pull back at slightest hint that he’s done something wrong. The same hands that so expertly grip tools and shape materials into what he wants them to be curve around the angry wound and slowly but surely sooth away some of the pain that’s been burning there throughout the night.

Against his will, Faraday sighs. “I take it back,” he mumbles, a little lightheaded with the sudden absence of pain. “You really can fix everything.”

“No, not everything,” Vasquez says thoughtfully, even as he continues coaxing more of the pain away. “I can’t weld for shit.”

Faraday laughs, loud and bright. “You’re so fucking weird,” he says fondly.

“That is not a nice thing to say to the man who came to you in your hour of need, guero,” Vasquez tells him.

It’s obvious he’s teasing, but Faraday feels something unpleasant clench in his stomach regardless. “Yeah,” he says, pulling his leg back and shifting out of Vasquez’s reach. “Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have kept you this long. You need to get back to bed. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work tomorrow.”

Vasquez gives Faraday a look he can’t read and shakes his head. “Actually, I was coming here anyway. Gonna get a head start on those windowpanes.”

“Oh,” Faraday says, belatedly remembering the plates of glass that are currently taking up more space than they should in his living room. Vasquez had been beside himself when he’d discovered that Faraday had only single pane windows, and had insisted he be allowed to rectify this post haste lest Faraday somehow find a way to freeze to death or something in the middle of September. “I forgot all about that.”

Vasquez laughs a little, only it quickly devolves into a yawn that goes on for quite a while. He shakes his head once it finally ends, and climbs to his feet. “You’re right though, I should get some sleep.”

“You can stay here if you like,” Faraday tells him, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can think better of it. Vasquez gives him a funny look, and Faraday squares his shoulders, determined to soldier on now that he’d already put his foot in it. “You’re obviously exhausted, and if you’re just going to be back here in however many hours, you may as well just crash on the couch. Or you can have my room,” he adds, belatedly realizing that it’d be rude not to offer.

Vasquez makes an aborted choking noise. “The couch will be fine, guero. No need to make things any harder on that leg of yours.”

“Cool,” Faraday says, suddenly too tired himself to argue. “Let me dig out some blankets for you.”

“I know where they are,” Vasquez assures him, and Faraday huffs out a laugh.

“Of course you do,” he says tiredly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’ve been over every nook and cranny of this house so thoroughly, you probably know where shit is better than I do.”

“Very likely,” Vasquez agrees. “But I’m smarter than you too, so.” He trails off with a grin and shrug.

“Jackass,” Faraday says. “Get out of my way, I’m going to bed.”

*****

If Faraday thought he’d get the chance to sleep in the next morning, he is sadly mistaken. The clock hasn’t yet struck eight when he’s jerked awake by the sound of something shattering in the distance, loud Spanish profanity closely following on its heels. Not liking that at all, he’s up and out of bed before he can think about it, heading for the stairs faster than he’s moved in a while.

“Vas?” He calls. “You alright?”

The swearing cuts off abruptly, and is replaced with a decidedly guilty silence. “Eh,” says Vasquez finally. “Not exactly?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Faraday demands. He starts moving faster. He doesn’t like the sound of ‘not exactly’ one bit.

“It means I could maybe use your help a little, and bring a towel.”

Faraday pulls up short, surprised by the odd request, and then darts into the bathroom and back out into the hallway, hitting the stairs at full speed. By some stroke of luck he doesn’t go pitching ass over tea kettle as he thunders down them, and therefore is able to witness the full brunt of what Vasquez has done to himself as he skids into the living room.

“Jesus fuck,” he barks because there is blood fucking _everywhere_. “What the fuck happened?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Vasquez assures him, sounding remarkably calm for a man who has one hand cradled against his chest in a vain attempt to stop it from bleeding all over hell and creation. “I dropped one of the panes of glass and cut myself trying to catch it. That’s all.”

“Oh that’s all,” Faraday snaps, stomping into the room and offering over the towel to try and staunch the flow of blood. “That’s all he says. No matter that you’re practically bleeding out on my fucking floor.”

“I am not bleeding out,” Vasquez hisses. His mouth is tight and drawn, an obvious sign he’s in more pain than he wants to admit. “Hand wounds bleed a lot. You know this.”

“No, I do not know this,” Faraday snaps. He wants to grab Vasquez and shake him for being stupid enough to let something like this happen, but he knows that would only make him hurt more. Instead, he wraps the towel as securely as he can around the injury, and starts tugging Vasquez in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on, I’ve got a first aid kit around here somewhere. Let me take a look at it.”

“I said it’s fine,” Vasquez tells him, doing his best to pull his hand back from Faraday’s reach.

Faraday gives him a long look. “Allow me to rephrase that. Either let me look at your damned hand, or I’m stuffing your ass in my car and we’re going to the emergency room.”

“…fine,” Vasquez mutters petulantly.

“Good,” Faraday snaps back. He points Vasquez in the direction of the kitchen. “You go sit. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

It takes him longer than he’d care to admit to remember where he’d stashed the kit in question, but he finds it in the end and hauls the whole thing over to where Vasquez is sitting at the table with his hand wrapped and elevated to try and stem some of the bleeding. Placing the kit on the table, he snaps it open and rummages around inside it for the gauze he knows is in there, all the while keeping up a running commentary on exactly what he thinks about Vasquez doing this to himself.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you. I cannot fucking believe you. You work with your hands, you idiot. What’re you going to do if you fucking well cut one of them off, huh?” Still growling under his breath, he finds the gauze he was looking for and takes it out, along with a bottle of peroxide.

“It is a _scratch_ , geuro.” Vasquez insists, clearly getting exasperated.

“Oh, it’s a scratch,” Faraday exclaims. “It’s a scratch. I see. Never mind that it’s leaked all over the place, probably staining the living room rug, might I add. No, it’s a scratch.” He snorts and reaches out to take Vasquez’s hand in both of his, slowly unwrapping the towel to get a better idea of what he’s dealing with. “Why don’t you let me see this so-called scratch, huh?”

Despite his tone, Faraday keeps his touch gentle, not wanting to hurt Vasquez any more than he absolutely has too. Once he gets the towel – now stained beyond repair – peeled back, he’s able to see the nasty looking gash that’s stretched from one side of Vasquez’s palm to the other. “It’s a scratch my fucking ass,” he says.

“It _is_ ,” Vasquez insists. “Look at it. It’s long, but it’s not deep. It will not even need stitches.”

He’s right, Faraday’s pretty sure of this, but if anything this just makes him angrier. “That is not the point,” he says. He stands abruptly and goes to get a clean dishcloth from over by the sink, running it under the tap until it’s good and wet.

“Give me your hand,” he says when he sits back down. “I need to get some of the blood off.”

Looking wary, Vasquez offers his hand back up to Faraday’s ministrations.

Still grumbling under his breath, he dabs at the wound until he’s got most of the blood cleared away and then reaches for the bottle of peroxide. “This is going to sting,” he says as he cracks the top open, “but lord knows what was on that glass so you’re just going to have to sit back and take it.”

Vasquez doesn’t quite manage to hold back a yelp as the first bit of peroxide hits splashes on his hand, and Faraday makes a soothing sound even though he still maintains he’s furious. “Easy,” he says, “I know it sucks, but infection and gangrene suck more.”

“You’ve never had gangrene, guero,” Vasquez spits through clenched teeth.

“This is true,” Faraday agrees, “but I’ve heard stories and feel confident in my assessment.”

Once he’s cleaned the cut to his satisfaction, he reaches for the gauze and opens it up so that he can get ready to start wrapping it around the wound. “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

Vasquez doesn’t say anything as Faraday starts using the gauze for its intended purpose, his only action being to shift slightly in his seat, so Faraday determines that he’s putting down just the right amount of pressure.

Neither of them says a word until Faraday has Vasquez’s hand wrapped to his satisfaction. “There,” he says as he cuts the strip free with the tiny scissors included in the kit and fastens the end down with two pieces of adhesive tape. “All done.”

“And none the worse for wear,” Vasquez assures him. He holds his hand up to admire Faraday’s handiwork. “Not bad, guero. Much better than I could have done on my own, I’m sure.”

“Uh huh.” Faraday busies himself with restocking the first aid kit, and studiously doesn’t look at Vasquez.

“Guero? You okay?”

“ _I_ am _fine_ ,” Faraday snaps, still not looking at him. “You’re the one with the gaping wound in one hand.”

“It was hardly gaping,” Vasquez scoffs.

Faraday does look up at that, and he glares at Vasquez with all his might. “This needs to stop,” he says decisively. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Keeping doing what?” Vasquez asks. “This is the first time you’ve ever seen me hurt myself.”

“I’m not talking about this,” Faraday says, pointing at Vasquez’s bandaged hand. “I’m talking about _this_ ,” he says, using a much more sweeping gesture to take in the rest of the house.

“I don’t understand.” Vasquez tells him, frowning.

“You need to stop trying to fix every part of this house, and I need to stop letting you just because I like having you around.” Faraday huffs out a laugh that has no real humour in it, and refuses to meet Vasquez’s eye. “It’s bad enough I’ve been letting you do this for months, I’m not going to let you get hurt because of me.”

He doesn’t know what kind of response he’s expecting to this declaration, but Vasquez cupping his face in his hands and pulling him in for a kiss certainly isn’t it. It doesn’t last long, is in fact nothing more than a barely there press of lips before he’s pulling back and leaving Faraday staring at him like an idiot.

“Was that alright?” Vasquez asks. He gives Faraday a worried look. “I thought – I didn’t misunderstand what you meant, did I?”

Faraday’s mouth moves soundlessly for a few moments, and he shakes his head. “No,” he croaks finally. “You didn’t misunderstand.”

The worried look disappears and is replaced by one of Vasquez’s trademark beaming smiles. Faraday cannot think at the best of times when that smile is aimed at him, and he most definitely can’t do so now. He swallows heavily, and waits to see what Vasquez has to say since he looks like he’s gearing up for a big reveal.

“I despise this house,” he says when he has Faraday’s full attention on him. “It is – I have never in my life seen a place more likely to become a deathtrap if no one pays it enough attention. Every time I turn around something new is breaking, and I am convinced that one day I am going to wake up and find out it has finally managed to kill you.”

“However,” he continues on, steamrolling over any protests Faraday might put up in defence of his home, “I would not, not a million years, put all the work I have into it for just anybody.”

“Oh,” Faraday says, and the lightbulb finally goes off. “ _Oh_.”

“Yes, oh.” Vasquez agrees. “I climbed up on the roof for you, guero. I hate roof work.”

“You could have just said something,” Faraday grumbles. He can feel his face heat as Vasquez gives him an incredulous look. “I thought you were just obsessed with fixing things.”

“If I were, this would be the house of my dreams,” Vasquez says. “But, no, I like being around as much as you apparently like having me around, that’s all.”

“Huh.” Faraday says. He matches Vasquez’s grin with one of his own, and leans forward to close the gap between them. “I guess I can handle that.”

*****

_Epilogue_

Faraday shivers in the cool morning air as he steps into the bathroom. They’re well into the thick of winter now, and he wants a hot shower to do something about the chill that’s trying to settle into his bones.

Yawning because he’s not quite awake yet, he shoves the shower curtain back and leans forward to twist the tap. There’s a small creaking sound as he does so, and then the entire thing comes off in his hand. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, glaring at it.

He holds it up so that he can see it better and sighs. “You know, I wish shit in this house wouldn’t insist on doing this every time I turn around. He gets so damned smug whenever I give him another example of quote unquote all around shoddy craftsmanship.”

Shockingly, the tap doesn’t offer up a response and Faraday huffs out another sigh. Shuffling out of the room, he makes his way down the hallway, tossing the broken object from hand to hand as he goes. “All I’m saying is it’s nice I don’t have to go very far to get things fixed anymore.”

Pushing open the bedroom door with one hand, he looks over at the tangled mess that is the bedding and coughs pointedly. “Oy, Sleeping Beauty, I need your help with something.”

A displeased groan sounds out from somewhere in the nest of blankets, and a solid minute passes before Vasquez finally struggles free of the cocoon he’s  made for himself in Faraday’s absence. “What is it?” He asks, the words barely understandable since the get interrupted halfway through by a yawn.

Faraday doesn’t bother to fight back a smile at the sight of him. He looks ridiculous, clearly still half-asleep and with the hair on one side of his head standing up straight while the other side is smushed flat from where he’s been lying on it. Faraday wouldn’t trade him for anything.

He holds up the tap so Vasquez can see it. “Well, I went to take a shower, and wound up thwarted in my efforts.”

Vasquez groans again and flops back down into the bed covers, burying himself even more thoroughly than he had before.

“I _hate_ this house.”

**Author's Note:**

> And now that that's over with, I'd like to offer up a huge round of thanks to decoy-ocelot, who not only came up with most of the things to go wrong in Faraday's house but also patiently explained to me how one would fix them all too. She is the best.


End file.
